


twisted both the same

by ictus



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 18:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14721126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/pseuds/ictus
Summary: It’s déjà fucking vu, it’s history repeating itself—the two of them fated to end up here over and over again, even as time and space shift relentlessly around them.





	twisted both the same

**Author's Note:**

> Set during Countdown to Final Crisis when Jason visits Earth-51, during the interlude between Issue #15 and #14. You know the part I'm talking about. Basically how did we go from [this](https://i.imgur.com/W6EypM0.jpg) to [this](https://i.imgur.com/LduSGmH.jpg)?

The bindings bite into his wrists and grind his bones together, just as they did on the day they first met. But Jason’s not thirteen anymore and they’re not in the cave, not even on earth—or the same earth, rather. And the man standing before him, familiar in every way save for the gun he’s holding to Jason’s head, is not Bruce Wayne.

“I’ll ask again: who are you and why did you choose this disguise? You’ve got about ten seconds to confess.”

Jason doesn’t explain himself, already knows that to do so would be pointless. He may be in another universe, but there is one thing of which he is certain: Bruce is a man of science, a man of logic, and nothing Jason could say or do could ever hope to measure up to the DNA test that’s currently running its course. But what Jason _can_ do, is stall. And because he’s not thirteen anymore, he’s well on his way to extracting the tiny blade he keeps in the lining of his glove.

“Where’s Alfred? Or Robin, for that matter?”

Bruce’s face twists into an ugly grimace. “I work alone. It’s better this way. No distractions, no keeping up appearances. You still haven’t answered my question.”

“I did, it just wasn’t what you wanted to hear,” he says jutting his chin out. “Which seems to be a phenomenon that’s conserved across the multiverse, now that I think of it.”

Bruce’s grip on the gun tightens and he opens his mouth to retort when he’s interrupted by a small beep from the work station. He turns abruptly and approaches the computer to interpret the results, and Jason takes advantage of his inattention by twisting his hands within their bonds so he can begin cutting through the cable.

“So how’d I do? Did I pass? You gonna give me a gold star?”

Bruce rounds on him, stone-faced and impassive. But Jason knows all of his tells, sees his fury in the set of his jaw, his disbelief in the arch of his eyebrow. “What are you, a clone?”

Jason sighs and begins to tell Bruce some of what’s happened since his life took a sharp turn towards the deeply implausible. He draws out his story, getting momentarily confused somewhere between Earth-15 and Earth-8, steadfastly working at his bonds all the while. To his credit, Bruce seems to take it more or less in his stride, probably already aware that there’s a multiverse and largely unsurprised there are means of travelling within it. “Anyway, that’s why there are a bunch of transdimensional freaks raging war on your city right now,” he says casually, like this is just an average Wednesday afternoon for him. When Bruce offers no further comment, he says, “I’m guessing your Jason was killed by the Joker too?”

Bruce seems to crumple at the mention of Jason’s counterpart, his shoulders caving in and all traces of stoicism suddenly leaving his face. “Yes,” he admits finally, his voice barely more than a whisper. Jason can’t bear to see the naked grief on his face, can’t stand to look Bruce in the eye. “It was the final straw for me. When I saw what he had done, I knew I had to make sure Jason was the last person he ever hurt. So I went to war,” he says, scrubbing his face with his hands and suddenly looking so, so tired. “I killed them all. Joker. Grundy. Sinestro. No more Rogues’ Galleries, no more Legions of Doom.”

Jason’s eyes prickle and he has to swallow around the lump in his throat. Out of all the absurd shit he’s seen since this whole thing started—monsters and aliens, different theres and elsewheres—this is by far the most difficult reality to accept. The fact that somewhere, in some version of existence, there’s a Bruce who cared for a Jason so much, he stopped at nothing to avenge him.

“You look surprised,” Bruce says as if reading Jason’s thoughts. “Why, what did _your_ Batman do when you died?”

Jason’s answering snarl is ripped from his throat, and it’s just so like Bruce to know exactly where to twist the knife. He tears apart what’s left of the cable and lunges at Bruce, feinting left but hitting right, the shock of it all catching Bruce off-guard. This Bruce is not as fast as his own, has become far too reliant on firearms and weaponry, but that doesn’t stop him from getting in a hit to Jason’s solar plexus that knocks the wind right out of him. He follows it with an uppercut so powerful that black spots bloom across his vision, blood dribbling down his chin.

Jason’s back’s against the wall, but that’s nothing new.

“The only reason you’re still alive is because your DNA matches Jason’s,” Bruce says, not without some disgust. “But if you try something like that again, it will be the last thing you ever do.” Jason’s eyes dart between his face and his holstered gun and he nods, his breath still coming too shallowly to form a reply. “I’m glad we’ve reached an accordance,” Bruce says, drawing his gun and making a show of disengaging the safety. “This bunker is secure, impervious to x-ray vision, green lantern rings… we’ll wait out the first strike here.”

“What, are you crazy?” Jason spits, flecks of blood flying from his mouth. “I’ve got friends up there, people I care about. Do you think I’m just gonna sit back and watch while they’re killed?”

“You think you can take on an army of Supermen, unarmed and unassisted? What are you going to do?”

Jason advances until he’s right in Bruce’s space, his face raised in defiance. “Whatever it takes.”

An ugly snarl forms on Bruce’s lips, and it’s through clenched teeth that he finally replies. “Go on then, ‘Jason’,” the name a taunt in his mouth, “you’re already dead anyway. Might as well make it official.”

“We’re both dead, ‘Batman’,” he replies, not backing down. “Any fool can see you’ve been dead inside for years.”

Bruce’s right hook comes in fast but Jason’s ready for it, blocking it while throwing a quick jab to Bruce’s throat. He splutters reflexively, and Jason has him disarmed and pinned against the wall in seconds; one arm braced across his chest while his knee is pressing against his crotch _just so_ , in such a way that Bruce has no choice but to concede. This is how it’s always been with them; Bruce is technically the better fighter, but Jason’s scrappier, fights dirtier.

“So you _do_ have a death wish, after all,” Bruce says, his tone sardonic. Before Jason can so much as blink, there’s a fist in his hair and a batarang at his throat, the tip of the blade pressing along the line of scar tissue that his own Bruce left there several years prior. It’s déjà fucking vu, it’s history repeating itself—the two of them fated to end up here over and over again, even as time and space shift relentlessly around them.

“It seems we’re at a stalemate,” Jason says conversationally, not willing to give one bit.

“That’s what you think,” Bruce growls, and executes a complicated manoeuvre that sees Jason flat on his back with all of Bruce’s weight on top of him, the batarang an ever-present threat at his throat. Jason’s knocked breathless once again, and all he can do is pant, his chest labouring under Bruce’s weight. Bruce is so close that they’re sharing the same breath, and Jason can feel the long lines of his body pressed against his own. And Jason, stupid fucking Jason who never, ever learns, can ’t help but arch into the press of Bruce’s body. He’s already hard, can feel the blood rushing to his cock, because his response Bruce is damn-near Pavlovian, so deeply wired into his brain that even the threat of imminent death can’t deter it.

Jason can sense the exact moment that Bruce notices, his eyes widening and his grip slackening on the batarang. And Jason—Jason does the only thing he _can_ do: he goes for broke. He’s pressing his lips against Bruce’s and for a moment there’s nothing but pure panic setting his nerves alight until Bruce’s shock subsides and he’s kissing Jason, devouring him. He’s nipping at Jason’s lip where it had been split earlier, tasting the blood there, before pushing his tongue into Jason’s mouth. Jason moans and opens up for Bruce, letting him set the pace and responding in kind. He wraps his legs around Bruce’s hips and he bucks helplessly, desperate for any kind of friction.

Bruce is quick to notice and breaks the kiss to snake a hand between them and grind the heel of his palm against Jason’s erection. “Christ,” Jason says, letting his head fall back to the ground with a thud, shocked by how good it feels to be touched even through layers of fabric.

“Did you and he ever—”

And maybe Jason’s just getting swept up on the sensations, because it takes him far too long to figure out what Bruce is asking. “What? No. Of course not, it was never like that,” he says.

The words ‘ _did you?’_ are all but formed on Jason’s lips, but he finds himself unable to speak. They hang unspoken in the air for several moments until Jason finally realises that he actually doesn’t want to know. This—meeting this other Bruce, hearing about his other self—it’s all too much. He had grown to accept that Bruce never avenged him because there was something intrinsic and fundamental to Bruce that prevented him from crossing that line. That if he were the type of person who _could_ do that, he wouldn’t be Bruce, and if he weren’t Bruce then Jason wouldn’t love him.

But this Bruce is real life flesh and blood, living proof contradicting just that. And not for the first time, Jason’s caught wondering what exactly it is that makes him so unworthy when this other version of himself was so dearly loved and didn’t even live to see it.

Bruce must have worked open Jason’s jeans because suddenly his hand is on his dick, broad and calloused and feeling every bit as amazing as he always imagined it would, and all thoughts of alternate universes fade rapidly from Jason’s mind. He tries to remind himself that this isn’t _his_ Bruce, that they’re both just stand-ins for people they love but can never have. But Bruce’s lips, the timbre of his voice, the breadth of his shoulders—they’re all so achingly familiar that Jason can’t help but give into Bruce’s touch.

“You need to get this off like five minutes ago,” Jason says, scrabbling at the fastenings of his suit.

“You always were so impatient,” Bruce says with a tenderness that Jason hasn’t earned, and the nostalgia in his voice makes Jason’s chest ache. He moves to straddle Jason’s waist so he can undo the suit, starting with the gauntlets. Bruce’s chest is as broad as he remembers, some of the scars familiar and some completely foreign, and Jason wants nothing more than to map them with his mouth. But that feels far too indulgent and Jason feels all too undeserving, so he settles for running his hands over the planes of his chest while Bruce undoes the fastenings of his pants and pushes them down his thighs.

Bruce’s dick is flushed, shiny with precome, and he strokes it exactly twice before Jason grabs his wrist, stilling him. “Please, can I—” he licks his lips, “let me suck you,” he says, feeling the colour rise in his cheeks.

Bruce appraises him and for a long moment, all Jason can hear his sound of his heart pounding in his ears. Until finally—

“Yes,” Bruce murmurs on an exhalation, his eyes fluttering shut at the thought. “God, Jason I—”

Jason cuts him off by pulling him down for another kiss. He can’t bear to hear Bruce speak his name with such reverence, can’t handle whatever confession was sure to follow.  “C’mon,” he says, breaking the kiss, urging Bruce to move up his body until he’s straddling his chest. Jason props himself up on his elbows until the head of Bruce’s dick is just barely brushing his lips. He extends one hand to grip the base of Bruce’s cock and is gratified when the simple pressure makes Bruce shudder above him.

Jason sucks gently at the head, and Bruce tastes so fucking good he has to let go and reach down to give his own dick a squeeze. He stays like that for a few moments until Bruce finally gets the hint and starts to feed Jason his cock, pushing it further and further past his lips. The angle isn’t the best for this, but Jason’s gag reflex has been well and truly fucked out of him, and it’s all worth it when Bruce gets a hand in his hair.

“That’s it, Jay,” he says cupping the back of his head as he fucks Jason’s mouth with shallow, gentle thrusts, and Jason can’t help but moan at the nickname, overwhelmed by nostalgia. “You’re so beautiful like this,” Bruce says with a sincerity makes Jason’s eyes prickle once again, his chest feeling uncomfortably tight in a way that has little to do with the Bruce’s weight on top of him.  

Jason’s dick is slippery with precome by the time he starts jacking himself in earnest, and it’s not long before he feels his orgasm build. He tries desperately to draw it out, to make it last, but Bruce is hot and heavy on his tongue, is above him and all around him, and it’s too much. His orgasm completely blindsides him and he’s left thrashing under Bruce, moaning obscenely around his dick.

Bruce pulls him off to let him catch his breath, but Jason resists, digging his fingers into Bruce’s corded thighs and forcing his dick even further past his lips. With Jason languid and boneless beneath him, Bruce _finally_ gets a fistful of Jason’s hair and fucks his throat hard and rough, just how Jason likes it.

“God, Jay—” Bruce says, muttering a stream of endearments that Jason actively shuts out. Instead, he listens to the blood rushing through his ears, focuses on the taste of Bruce, and it’s not long before Bruce’s grip tightens in Jason’s hair. “Fuck, _Jason,_ ” Bruce moans trying to pull out, but Jason grabs his hips, forcing his cock even deeper down his throat as Bruce shudders and shakes above him.

After what feels like an eternity, Bruce’s aftershocks subside and his grip on Jason’s hair loosens. He pulls out and Jason barely has a second to catch his breath before Bruce is kissing him hungrily, chasing the taste out of the corners of his mouth. Before long, the kiss melts into something softer, more tender; their tongues sliding against each other as if they really do have all the time in the world and there isn’t a war being waged on their doorstep at this very moment.

Later, when Jason’s cradling Bruce’s bloody and lifeless body, he’ll remember this moment. Remember the feeling of Bruce’s lips on his own, the open adoration on his face when he pulled away, the reverence with which he stroked Jason’s face—as if he were something precious, something to be cherished. But right now, all he can do is hold Bruce close, run his hands over the planes of his body, and listen to the steady beat of his heart.

It’s Bruce who finally breaks the silence.

“Let’s get you suited up,” he says with a smile.


End file.
